The Shadow Quarter's underground arena pulsed with a bloodthirsty energy. Spectators packed every stone tier, their voices creating a wall of sound that vibrated through Leon's chest. Bookmakers perched on wooden crates, scribbling frantically as silver coins changed hands. The air was thick with the smell of torch smoke, sweat, and anticipation.
Leon stepped onto the sand, each footfall sending jolts through his healing wounds. His ribs throbbed beneath torn bandages, and the cut on his jaw from last night's assassination attempt pulled tight as he grimaced. But he was alive, which was more than his enemies had planned.
Across the pit stood Karsil the Bonehand, tall and skeletal, draped in black robes marked with bone sigils. His skin stretched pale and tight over sharp features, and death magic radiated from him in waves, making the air shimmer with necromantic energy.
The tournament master's voice boomed through magical amplification: "For the first time in our arena's history—a true necromancer's duel! Leon Graves versus Karsil the Bonehand! Unleash your armies!"
Karsil raised both arms and shadows writhed behind him as three figures shambled forward. A massive brute wielded a sledgehammer that could crack stone, a wolf stitched from rotting flesh and rusted metal with steel fangs gleaming in its jaw and a one-armed swordsman who moved with twitchy speed despite missing its left limb.
The crowd's roar split the air. Underworld enforcers and black market dealers chanted Karsil's name, their voices merging into a savage hymn.
Leon drew a steady breath. Pain flared in his side, but he pushed through it. His voice cut across the arena: "Arouse!"
Blue light twisted through the sand as his Elite Grave Mage materialized first—spectral bones wrapped in dark energy, blue fire burning in empty sockets. Then came the second figure that made the organizer's face go ash-gray.
The undead assassin stepped forward—the same woman who had tried to murder him hours ago. Her throat bore the marks where his zombie had killed her, yet she moved with perfect precision. Twin knives glinted in her hands.
Recognition flickered across several faces in the crowd. The organizer's hired killer was now serving her target and the irony was not lost on anyone.
The bell clanged.
Karsil's brute charged immediately, its sledgehammer sweeping down in a bone-crushing arc. Leon dove left, sand scraping his palms. The weapon struck where he had just stood, sending tremors through the arena floor.
His Mage Zombie intercepted the brute's follow-up swing. Spectral bones cracked under the impact but held firm. Blue sparks flew as undead grappled with undead.
The metal wolf leaped at Leon's legs, jaws snapping for his ankles. His assassin met it mid-air. Steel rang against steel as her knives deflected their fangs, and they crashed together in a tangle of limbs and blades.
The one-armed swordsman circled wide, searching for an opening. Leon tracked its movements, raised his mana gun, and fired. The shot scorched the sand, but the swordsman had already moved, its blade nicking Leon's forearm as it passed.
Blood welled through his sleeve. These were not mindless puppets typical of necromancy. Each of Karsil's minions moved with intelligence, coordination, and purpose.
"Impressed?" Karsil called from across the pit. "Fifteen years of practice, boy. Your parlor tricks won't save you here."
Leon ignored the taunt and barked orders to his undead, coordinating their attacks. The assassin danced around the wolf, her precise movements slicing through rotted sinew. The beast's hind leg dragged uselessly in the sand.
But Karsil's creatures adapted quickly. As Leon focused fire on the wolf, the swordsman darted in from his blind spot. Steel scraped across his ribs, parting cloth and skin. Leon spun away, firing wildly, but the swordsman had already withdrawn.
The brute abandoned its struggle with the Mage Zombie and charged directly at Leon, its sledgehammer whistling through the air. Leon rolled aside just in time. The weapon smashed into the arena wall, sending stone chips flying.
His zombie pressed the attack while the brute was off-balance. Spectral bolts hammered into its back, each impact leaving smoking holes in its dead flesh.
The crowd was on its feet now, coins flying through the air as betting odds shifted. This was the spectacle they had paid to see—death magic unleashed without restraint.
Leon baited the wolf with false openings. When it lunged, his assassin struck from behind, knives punching through its spine. Black ichor sprayed across white sand. The wolf collapsed, twitching once before going still.
But victory came at a cost. The swordsman's blade found its mark, opening a gash across Leon's left thigh. Hot blood soaked his pants leg, and his vision blurred at the edges.
Leon's zombie tried to intercept but was too slow. The brute's weapon struck it full in the chest, causing spectral ribs to explode in blue fragments. The zombie flew backward, crashing into the arena wall with bone-cracking force.
The swordsman pressed its advantage, its blade sweeping toward Leon's throat in a killing stroke. Leon jerked his head back, steel passing inches from his neck. He pressed the mana gun against the swordsman's knee and pulled the trigger.
Blue energy vaporized bone and cartilage. The swordsman dropped, its leg folding at an impossible angle. Yet even crippled, it continued to fight, dragging itself forward with its remaining arm.
Leon stood at the center of the pit, breathing heavily. His assassin limped toward him, one arm hanging uselessly where the wolf had savaged her. His Mage Zombie struggled to rise from the wall, half of its ribs missing.
The brute turned away from the zombie's wreckage, its eyes locking onto Leon with predatory intensity. Blood dripped from Leon's numerous wounds onto the sand.
Karsil's voice echoed across the arena: "You fight well for a pretender. But this ends now."
The brute hefted its sledgehammer, each step toward Leon shaking the ground beneath him. That weapon could crush his skull like an eggshell.
Leon felt the weight of his gun in his grip. His mana reserves dwindled after multiple shots, and one mistake could spell disaster.
The assassin attempted to flank the brute, but her injuries slowed her down. The swordsman dragged itself between them, its blade still menacing despite its shattered leg.
Leon wiped blood from his eyes, the crowd's roar fading into the background. Everything narrowed to this moment—him against Karsil's remaining champions.
The brute raised its hammer overhead, and Leon saw his death reflected in its glassy eyes.
Then the weapon came crashing down.
Leon threw himself sideways. The sledgehammer struck the sand where he had just stood, sending up a spray of grit and leaving a crater on the arena floor.
Rolling to his feet, Leon pressed his gun against the brute's ribs and fired at point-blank range. The mana bolt tore through rotted flesh and bone, emerging from the creature's back in a spray of dark ichor.
The brute staggered but did not fall. Its free hand caught Leon by the throat, lifting him off the ground. Thick fingers tightened around his windpipe.
Stars burst behind Leon's eyes as his feet kicked uselessly at empty air. The brute's grip felt like iron bands crushing his neck.
From the corner of his vision, Leon saw his assassin drive both knives into the swordsman's back. The crippled undead collapsed, finally still.
But Leon was running out of air. His vision darkened at the edges, and the mana gun felt impossibly heavy in his numb fingers.
He pressed the barrel against the brute's temple and pulled the trigger.
Blue fire exploded through the creature's skull. Bone fragments and brain matter sprayed across the arena. The brute's grip loosened, and Leon crashed to the sand, gasping for breath.
The crowd erupted in frenzied cheers. Leon dragged himself to his knees, coughing blood onto the white sand now stained red and black.
Across the pit, Karsil's face had gone pale. His three champions lay motionless, their animation severed. Only the necromancers remained now.
Leon's assassin limped to his side, her movements unsteady from her injuries. His Mage Zombie pulled itself away from the wall, its spectral bones held together by sheer willpower.
Two battered undead stood against a master necromancer with fifteen years of experience.
Karsil raised his hands, dark energy crackling between his fingers. "Impressive display, boy. But now you face me directly."
Leon struggled to his feet, blood steadily dripping from his wounds. His gun has only two shots left before it would run dry. Every breath sent sharp spikes of pain through his ribs.
Yet he was still standing. Still fighting.
The crowd fell silent, sensing the battle's climax approaching. Two necromancers faced each other across sand soaked with the blood of the fallen.
Karsil's lips curved into a cold smile. "Let me show you what real death magic looks like."
He began to chant in a language Leon didn't recognize. The temperature in the arena dropped by ten degrees, and shadows writhed along the walls like living entities.
Leon felt his undead falter as Karsil's power pressed against them. The assassin's movements grew sluggish, and his zombie's blue fire dimmed.
Whatever Karsil was doing, it affected every undead in the arena, including Leon's.